


Reunion

by Sed



Series: Across Enemy Lines [5]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Grinding, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 14:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21078665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Badly injured during the events in Kalimdor, Mathias Shaw returns to Boralus to rest and recover. But he's been away for a while, and it hasn't gone unnoticed.(Can be read as a standalone.)





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> While this is technically set in the Across Enemy Lines AU, it can also be read as a standalone story (provided you ignore the brief mention of other events and relationships).

Flynn let the dice fly from his hand with a casual toss. They landed on six and… “Is that a rat?” he asked, squinting at the crude carving atop the second die.

“Yeah,” the Proudmoore cannoneer grunted. “Why?”

“No reason.” Flynn scratched his chin and continued to stare at the dice. “Mate, I’ll come clean with you: I’ve no idea what game we’re playing.”

“But you owe me six gold!”

“Of course.” Flynn aimed a finger at him. “By _your_ count. But you see, I’ve been playing a simple game of dice this whole time.”

“So have I!”

He shrugged. “This must be some variation I’m not familiar with, in that case.” He slapped the cannoneer on the shoulder and smiled. “Well, no matter. Can’t win ‘em all, yeah?”

“You owe me _six gold_.”

“We’ve been over this—” From the corner of his eye Flynn suddenly spotted a familiar figure in blue, picking his way through the crowds along the wharf. The hood drawn over his face couldn’t hide the stubborn jut of his chin, which Flynn would know anywhere, nor the brassy point of neatly trimmed hair that lay upon it.

He was on his feet in an instant. When the cannoneer complained and tried to tug at his boot cuff to pull him back, Flynn shook him off with the sort of sound he might use to shoo a cat. “I’ll be right back,” he assured the man, who did not seem at all mollified by his promise.

Entirely understandable, of course, since it was an outright lie.

Shaw had only just reached the gangplank leading to the deck of the _Wind’s Redemption_ when Flynn caught up to him. “Well, look at that,” he called out. “Sneaking back aboard your fine ship, are you? No intention of saying hello? Stopping by to see I’m still alive? You pull anchor on me and disappear for months and—” He froze. “You’re hurt.”

Shaw turned, far too slowly for a man of his usual dexterity, and fixed a weary gaze on Flynn’s blue-green eyes. “I’m just fine,” he lied. It was so much a lie, in fact, that he had to hiss the words through his teeth. He started to climb the boards up to the ship, but Flynn stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“You’re not fine at all, and you’re not going to crawl into a bunk and ‘sleep it off,’ or whatever nonsense it is you have in mind.” He tugged at Shaw’s arm, surprised at how easy it was to pull him in the direction he wanted. Shaw was generally immovable when he wanted to be. When he wasn’t hurt in some way Flynn couldn’t begin to fathom from a mere glance. Whatever it was, whatever he had been through, it only showed in the sunken shadows around his eyes, and the echo of something far more troubling that lay within them. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You hardly gave me the chance.” He hesitated, then said, “I’d have found you eventually.” Flynn knew that last bit for his unique twist on an apology. Remarkable that the man could be so clever and yet so stupid all at once.

He shook his head. “Hardly bears thinking what might have happened if you’d waited that long. You need proper care. You’re coming home with me.”

“I think I stand a better chance of surviving this if I crawl into a bunk.”

“Perhaps so,” Flynn said with a shrug. “But the food’s better, and I’ll wager I’m a lot more fun than those stodgy Alliance sailors.”

Shaw scoffed. “That assumes a lot about me that you don’t know.”

Ignoring Shaw’s attempts to wrest his arm away from Flynn’s grasp, he led the spymaster down the dock in the direction of his humble lodgings. He had acquired the small set of rooms after becoming a seemingly-permanent fixture in the Alliance war effort, since it seemed he would be in Boralus for the duration. Or so he liked to brag when he was a bottle and a half in on a rowdy evening. In truth, he’d let the place from an acquaintance of Taelia’s, and he was wholly uncomfortable with how very proper it was. It even had a view. “This is that game you play where you try to warn me off, and I remind you that I’m not going anywhere, right? You’re no good at it, you know. You’re—are those my clothes?”

“I had them with me in Stormwind,” Shaw only half-answered.

“Alright, I’ll swallow that bait: _why?_”

Shaw grumbled something under his breath, then pressed a hand to his side and groaned. “It hurts to speak,” he said. “Maybe later.”

“You’re a bloody terrible liar, you know that, don’t you?”

“I’m a spy,” Shaw reminded him, smiling despite the obvious pain. “I’m the best liar.”

  
Later, when Flynn had finally convinced Shaw to take a load off and allow himself to be looked after, they sat quietly in Flynn’s humble (rented) sitting room overlooking the sound.

“The king was awake when I left, but I don’t know much beyond that,” Shaw said, taking a sip from his glass as he wrapped up his retelling of the events in Kalimdor. He let his head fall back against the chair and sighed.

“So, he’s taken up with this orc, then?” Flynn asked, eyeing his own half-empty glass of whiskey. He swirled the liquid before tipping his head back to swallow the last of it. “Good for them, I say.”

“You’re surprisingly open minded about it,” Shaw remarked. His eyes were closed, but a slight smile sat at the corners of his mouth. “Romantic.”

“A spurious accusation, Spymaster Shaw. You forget what sort of bottom-trawling bilge scum I’ve sailed with in my own inglorious past. I’ve seen it all, my good man.” He feigned a shudder. “Some might say too much.”

Shaw frowned and waved a hand. It fell back to the arm of the chair with a soft _thump_. “Use smaller words,” he said.

“Having trouble with those, are you?”

“My head hurts.”

Flynn got up to pour himself another drink from the sideboard. He glanced at Shaw from the corner of his eye. “I could help with that, if you like.”

He spotted a sliver of bright green peering at him from beneath the loose fringe of the spymaster’s hair. “I hardly think _that_ will help.”

“My, you’re in rare form tonight. I only meant a massage.”

Shaw grunted, and his frown deepened, but he didn’t decline the offer. Flynn took that to mean it was welcome, as Mathias Shaw wasn’t a man given to asking for much. He was certainly known for saying no, however.

Setting aside his drink, Flynn moved behind the chair and discarded his jacket and boots. Shaw was already stripped down to nothing more than his shorts and an unlaced shirt—Flynn’s shirt—his _favorite_ shirt—at the pirate’s insistence. The worst of the damage to him seemed concentrated around his middle, though he wouldn’t admit exactly what had done it. He claimed he was in no danger of expiring. Flynn knew better than to push the matter unless it was life or death.

His fingertips touched the spymaster’s brow and Shaw flinched. Flynn waited for him to relax again and then slowly traced his hairline, drawing his fingers down to Shaw’s ears and sliding into the short-cropped hair that lay behind them. He continued down to the back of Shaw’s neck, where he gently rubbed the tension from his muscles. “Good?” he asked quietly.

Shaw hummed his approval and seemed to melt into Flynn’s hands.

The fire crackled away merrily as Flynn moved to massage Shaw’s shoulders. It was like kneading rocks. “What’ve you been up to?” he asked, letting more worry creep into his voice than he might have liked.

“Saving the day, as always,” Shaw quipped. A rare moment of levity. Flynn privately believed that few people had been privy to the spy’s peculiar sense of humor, and he was always rather pleased to be among that select number. He would never admit that to Shaw, of course.

When he reached Shaw’s chest he was stopped by a quiet grunt of pain. “Bad there?” he asked.

“From there down, more or less.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow he knew Shaw couldn’t see. “Not all the way down, I hope.”

“Not like you’ll be making any use of it tonight.”

“Is that your subtle way of warning me not to try anything unseemly, Spymaster?” Flynn leaned down and set the side of his mouth to Shaw’s ear. “Because I had some ideas.”

“I hope one of those ideas is sleep,” Shaw muttered. He was already drifting off under Flynn’s gentle touch, and it was as charming as it was frustrating. He was so unguarded in sleep, and it seemed a wonder that he could allow himself to be so vulnerable around anyone. Least of all a pirate he had hardly seemed to respect, let alone like, when they first met.

“Let’s move you to the bedroom,” Flynn said softly. “I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“Doesn’t inspire a great deal of confidence, coming from you,” Shaw teased, his words slurring from a combination of exhaustion and alcohol. The fire probably wasn’t helping much, either.

Flynn helped Shaw out of the chair and guided him carefully into the small bedroom, where the light was lower and the air just a bit cooler. An oil lamp was burning low on the bedside table, but it provided enough light to let Flynn see the extent of the damage to Shaw’s ribs when he lifted his shirt to take it off. His skin, once fair and unmarked apart from a scattering of freckles Flynn had frequently tried to map like a star chart, was instead a patchwork of bruises. Some were older, already yellowing and well on their way to healing. Others were still a sickening shade of purple that made something in Flynn’s chest turn over uncomfortably. He breathed a curse and held his hands at his sides to avoid reaching out. He would only cause pain if he did, he knew that now.

“Tell me the truth, Mathias, how close did you come to dying?”

Shaw gave him a strangely open and unhappy look, but turned away again before Flynn could divine its meaning. “Too close,” was all he said.

He lay himself down in the bed slowly, settling on his side. In the lamplight all of his many cuts and bruises took on a whole new horror. Flynn pulled a blanket up around his shoulders, struggling to ignore the tight feeling in his chest, the way it seemed to fight him for every breath. He and Shaw had always approached whatever this strange thing was between them with an air of nonchalance that seemed to suit them both. It had never occurred to him that the possibility of losing the spymaster—a very real possibility, all things considered—might hurt him. _Truly_ hurt him.

There was a small voice in the back of his mind telling him that _this_ was the line; the point of no return. He could step back, and Shaw would probably expect it; Flynn had never sold himself as the sort to put down roots, after all. Shaw was a big boy, he knew what he was getting into.

And yet he stood there, watching Shaw’s shoulder rise and fall beneath the blanket. After a moment Shaw turned just enough to catch sight of Flynn from the corner of his eye. “Are you coming to bed?” he asked.

This was the line.

“Aye.”

  
The next morning Flynn lay awake, as he had nearly the entire night, watching Shaw sleep. The light through the salt-stained windows was muted and gray, meaning it was early still—or else just overcast. It didn’t matter much to Flynn either way; he had no intention of leaving the bed until he was forced to, either by his stomach or the spymaster lying beside him.

Shaw had rolled onto his back at some point, and it was obvious from the way his face had gone slack and his breathing had eased that the position was much more comfortable for him. Flynn’s head lay on the pillow beside Shaw’s, his own hair still tied back out of the way. He resisted every urge to touch that came over him; a considerable feat, given his history of not quite _resisting_ temptation, per se.

Shaw stirred, and Flynn held his breath without meaning to. He watched the spymaster’s eyes blink open slowly, and then saw them focus on first the ceiling, then the walls, and finally he turned and his gaze fell upon Flynn. “Good morning,” he mumbled. Before Flynn could answer Shaw leaned forward and pressed their lips together. His hand, warm from a night spent tucked against the spymaster’s side beneath the blanket, found the back of Flynn’s neck and pulled him closer.

Flynn gasped into a smile, and Shaw’s tongue slipped past his, sliding into his mouth. He thought Shaw might have tried to devour him if not for the injuries that kept him at bay.

“And what a morning it is,” Flynn spoke against Shaw’s lips when he pulled back again. “Is this your way of saying you missed me?”

“Something like that.” Shaw kissed him again, and Flynn carefully rolled him onto his back, leaning on his arms to keep from putting any weight on Shaw’s injuries. He felt a pang of worry at the sharp breath Shaw took through his nose, but it didn’t seem enough to stop him. He kissed Flynn like he was drowning and the pirate’s mouth held the only air. His fingers roamed Flynn’s neck, back, and shoulders, and his thigh searched out something warm and stiffening by the second between Flynn’s legs.

Flynn pulled back and shook his head. “You’re a mite too injured for that, I think.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me.”

Shaw’s teeth closed around the juncture of Flynn’s neck and shoulder, drawing a hiss from him. “You know what I meant,” he all but growled.

“You were the one who made the rule, I’m only trying to abide by it,” Flynn pointed out.

Shaw scoffed. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve followed at least two other rules in my life. For example—” Flynn was silenced by Shaw’s mouth covering his, teeth scraping over his lip. “Good point,” he said when Shaw released him again, “why _am_ I still talking?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question a thousand times.”

“A thousand, eh?”

“At least.”

Flynn nuzzled Shaw’s ear and smiled at the needy sound it drew from the other man. “If that’s the sort of exaggerating you do, it’s no wonder they sent you back to me.”

He leaned up again and abruptly found himself caught by Shaw’s intense stare. The one he must have fixed on countless enemies in his lifetime. “I sent me back to you,” Shaw said firmly.

Flynn swallowed and forced himself to look away. He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. “Yes, well,” he started to say, finding there was nothing clever waiting in the wings. That was certainly a strange feeling. Finally he cleared his throat, reached down to push his palm against Shaw’s erection, and said, “_This_ will not do, Spymaster Shaw.”

Shaw cracked a rare and altogether stunning smirk and said, “So do something about it, Captain Fairwind.”

Flynn made a frustrated sound and gingerly pulled Shaw over onto his side. It was slow going, but finally he had him lying in a position that didn’t seem to cause him any unnecessary pain. “If you crack another rib I won’t have you crying to me about needing a healer,” he said.

“If you can crack one of my ribs from this I’ll be impressed.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Flynn muttered, pushing the last of Shaw’s clothing out of the way. He, of course, was naked as the day he was born. As was proper. “I think that’ll do it,” he said, and settled himself as flush as he dared against Shaw’s front. “No heroics; tell me if anything hurts.”

“You certainly know how to set the mood, don’t you,” Shaw asked dryly.

Flynn’s answer was to roll his hips, rubbing his own cock against the underside of Shaw’s and making him bite his lip and groan. “What’s that, now?”

Shaw reached for Flynn’s shoulder to steady himself, holding on so tight it was likely he’d leave bruises. Flynn licked his hand and stroked him once, drawing a sound from the spy that might have been a word, or at least the start of one. Then Flynn wrapped his hand around them both at once and started squeezing and stroking slowly, and Shaw seemed to lose the ability to speak altogether. He let his head fall to the pillow between them, burying his face in Flynn’s neck.

“That’s it,” Flynn whispered to him. His throat was dry when he tried to swallow. “Let me take care of you, now.”

“Flynn…” Shaw had screwed his eyes shut, and he was barely breathing. It was clear that he was holding back, trying to fight it and hang on a little longer. But that wasn’t what Flynn wanted at all. Nor was it what either of them needed, least of all Shaw.

“It’s just me, Mathias. You can let go with me,” he said, and meant it.

Shaw let out a choked sound, almost halfway to a sob, and he abruptly came in Flynn’s fist. His body shuddered through it, and he whimpered when it was over—perhaps from pain, perhaps from something else. Flynn didn’t mention it. He didn’t bother to finish himself off, either. He wiped his hand clean and reached up to draw his fingers down the side of Shaw’s face. “Feel alright?” he asked.

Shaw only nodded. He lay in Flynn’s arms for a while longer as Flynn slowly stroked his back.

Eventually hunger won out, and Flynn was forced to concede to the will of his stomach—and, he was certain, Shaw’s. “I’ll get us cleaned up,” he said, untangling himself from the spymaster. “You can pay for breakfast.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Flynn was already up and out of the bed, considerably more awake than his lover seemed to be at the moment. “That’s alright, I know all about the hidden pockets where you hide your gold.”

Shaw was strangely silent in response to that. A few seconds later Flynn _tsked_ and called back to the bedroom, “I forgot that you came back wearing _my_ clothes.”

“I guess that means it’s your gold, too.”

“Well, I’ve lost track of my own pants, so I’ve written those off,” Flynn said. He returned to the bedroom wearing the pair Shaw had absconded with to the Eastern Kingdoms. “Here.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and carefully cleaned up the mess they had made together. Shaw reached out for him and lightly grasped his hand in thanks, but it was his eyes that said the most, and it was his eyes Flynn had the most trouble walking away from. “I’ll come back soon,” he said, as much to himself as Shaw.

Shaw settled back in the bed, blankets pulled up past his shoulders. He looked better than he had the day before; his color was closer to what Flynn thought of as healthy, if still much too pale. He nodded. “I’ll be right here,” he said.

Flynn smirked, but it wasn’t at Shaw.

He thought he’d made the choice to cross that line. He thought it had loomed before him and he had stumbled over it, blind to what lay beyond. But as it turned out, he’d sailed past it long ago. It had just been so natural that he hadn’t even noticed.

“Aye,” Flynn said, looking down on the spymaster lying in his bed. “As you should be.”


End file.
